The sounds of the celebration in the glade filter through the trees, louder and louder as they walk their horses toward the light and sound. They’d been riding for a week with little break and both they and their horses would be glad of a respite, even if only for a night or two. Hopefully, the air of celebration would grant them an indulgence as outsiders to the gathering. They would leave if pressed, but very much looked forward to a fire and music. And sleep where neither of them would have to keep good watch.
I do not love the bright Sword for its sharpness,
They were both dressed as rangers, and equipped well, despite their travel-stained and weary appearance. One of them was taller than the other, his cloak blending with the shifting, mottled shadows of the forest, almost making him seem to shimmer into invisibility when he passes through a spot of shadows. Beside him, a large black horse walks placidly along under its saddle. There is little on the horse that glitters or even looks new. On the saddle there is a longbow in a scabbard and a long sword with a shining silver basket on the hilt. His cloak seems to hide a pair of weapons, but the outline is vague, only hints here and there. He keeps his hood up, hiding his face in the deeper shadows with the help of a scarf wrapped close.
The other was a beauty, even by Drow standards. She wore her hood down, her face unhidden. She moved with grace and a seductive fluidity, but her movements were nothing as smooth and careful as her taller companion. Her hair was kept in a long braid, shimmering like golden silk, even in the forest’s shade. There was a flint arrowhead mounted to a glittering silver chain at her breast, swaying silently. At her hip, there was a dagger and an intricately made rapier. Her horse was smaller, a pale gray that almost glowed like moonlight. They observe for a moment as Dragania speaks with the fellow with the wagon. They were content to wait for their turn, considering it only polite.
The woman turns to her companion as they wait.
“Are you sure we will be welcomed, Istryl?” Her voice is smoothly accented, though she is careful to speak the common tongue, despite her obvious heritage. Her accent is light, but to any who knew such things, would pick her out as being raised in Menzoberranzan. Her companion’s reply is a soft, patient voice, with just a pleasant hint of a lilt to it.
“We can only ask, Lady. Sometimes that is enough.”
She nods a little, chewing the inside of her lip. She had come to respect and value her companion’s advice over the past few months. He’d earned her trust, such as she was able to give it. The surface world was still strange to her, and her companion no less so. The idea of trust still made her nervous.
“If you say so, Istryl. I will ask.”
nor the Arrow for its swiftness,
nor the Warrior for his glory.
I love only that which they defend."
~ JRR Tolkien